


Peaches

by vanillawg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Student Derek, College Student Stiles, Librarian Derek, M/M, Panty Kink, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 15:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11626854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillawg/pseuds/vanillawg
Summary: The library is quiet, this late at night.





	Peaches

**Author's Note:**

> hello ok this has been something in my wips for a LONG while but i stopped it to work on my bakery au and then another fic which i am working VERY hard on but is like, 20k so far and not even a fifth of the way through i'm sad, and i'm really sorry if you're following the bakery au but i've been really sick this week and then it was my birthday (yay!) and i'm working really late the next two days so i'll TRY and get the next chapter out this weekend but i can't guarantee anything. i'm doing loads of overtime because i need money so badly. :(  
> anyway i really hope you guys enjoy this!! it's not super great imo but i hope you'll like it anyway?

The library is quiet, this late at night. Around exam season, there’s maybe two, three students that still haunt it at two, three a.m. Even then, they’re usually in one of the private research rooms, or the only noise they make is a scritch-scratch of pens, turning pages, and soft typing.

It’s usually quiet.

Most nights, though, there’s only one student – Stiles Stilinski, perpetual menace. He is, unarguably, Derek’s favorite student.

He’s loud and obnoxious when he’s not working – and Derek likes his quiet. He likes it a lot, but he doesn’t mind Stiles’ Not Quiet awfully – but when he’s focusing on his work, Stiles is a little scary. Derek has seen him come back to the surface after hours – four, and twenty-seven minutes once, Derek timed it. For _science_ , or whatever, not because he’s a creep. Which he may be, but he’s a creep for _science_ , or whatever – only to pee, and he only needed to pee because Derek desperately shoved coffee in his hand when Stiles had begun to get dangerously close to tipping out of his chair and spilling on the floor. Derek would bet his life that if that had happened, Stiles would have just gone to sleep right there and then, he’d looked tired enough.

And that’s a thing. The coffee. Derek isn’t – and he’s tried – going to ask Stiles _explicitly_ on a date, but he knows Stiles’ coffee order (which isn’t that weird, not really  – he’d asked Stiles if he wanted some coffee, because he’s _tried_ asking Stiles on a date  – and Stiles had blurted out some offensively long coffee order that he’d had to write down for Derek) and brings him coffee every now and then.

Every now and then being either when Stiles is staring blearily into space, or when Derek really doesn’t feel like working.

They – they’ve talked, they’ve talked a _lot_ , actually, about everything and nothing: Stiles’ school work (double major in psychology and criminology), his friends –

(“…and it’s like she doesn’t even see him, which is both tragic and fucking hilarious, depending on how sympathetic you’re feeling, which is approximately not at all at any given moment.”

“Didn’t you say you spent your entire high school life in love with a girl who didn’t see you?”

“Fuck you.”)

– and what he’s up to (which takes them back to Stiles’ school work, because he’s a double major and has just about zero free time). They don’t really talk about Derek – which is fine, because there’s not a whole lot to talk about. A major in astrophysics, it’s boring to other people, Derek has found – and Stiles talks enough for the both of them. Stiles flirts, too – even Derek is self-aware enough to recognize flirting, but it’s always meaningless, just banter – and makes outrageous comments that have Derek flushing.

It’s… nice, like _really_ nice, and Derek always looks forward to his shifts because, late at night, Stiles is always there.

*

“Hey, Derek!” Stiles calls, making his way over to where Derek is stacking shelves. His voice is sudden, and Derek drops the books.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and the weird blonde girl that comes into the library at ten and spends her entire time methodologically working her way through every encyclopedia they have – which is a lot, and it makes Derek uncomfortable when she asks for the next one – Clarke, or whatever, glares at Derek like it’s his fault, and hisses out an aggressive “shh!” and spitting everywhere.

Stiles just grins at her, and slides into a table close to where Derek is, winking conspiratorially at him.

The Spanish textbook in Derek’s hand slips and bangs on the floor, and Clarke – Clary? Clara? – slams the encyclopedia shut with a huff, standing up and stalking off.

Derek just shakes his head, because he’s going to have to wipe her spit off the book and the table, and bends to pick up the textbook.

Stiles whistles. “Woah, dude, what crawled up her ass and–” Stiles starts sputtering, and Derek throws him a startled look. “No, no, I’m okay, I just–”

Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles flushes a dark, blotchy red.

“Yeah, I’m…” Stiles starts, and trails off, grabbing his laptop out of his bag, shoving a highlighter in his mouth. “I’m fine,” he says around it, except it comes out more like “mm fnn.”

“Right.” Derek shakes his head, and goes back to putting away all the books returned this week. Fucking Lucille works the day shift, and always leaves this to Derek. The trolley is heavy, but it’s like getting a work out and being paid for it. (Fuck you, gym.)

A few hours later, Stiles looks like he’s drifting away, and Derek brings him his coffee order from the little 24/7 cafe.

“Here’s one, um,” Derek says, because he’s not entirely okay with saying the order aloud more than once a day, and holds the coffee in front of him like an offering. Stiles blinks, bleary-eyed and hair looking like a nuclear bomb site.

“Uh?” Stiles says. Derek blinks. Takes the lid off of the coffee and puts it on the table, pushing it close to Stiles. Stiles sniffs a few times, and blinks rapidly. “Oh, cool, coffee. Thanks man.” He grins, blindingly, and Derek blushes. “Do you want, like – money? For the coffee?”

And that’s another thing. Or, two other things: Stiles hates feeling like he owes anyone, but Derek gets free coffee from the campus cafe and abuses his power to… buy Stiles coffee. It’s not – it’s not _wooing._ It’s just helping out a poor, tired student.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Right, yeah,” Stiles presses his lips together, and throws Derek a weak smile. “Free shit, ‘n all.”

“Are you–” Derek bites his lips, and shoves his glasses up his nose. “You should go home. Get some rest.”

Stiles startles, like he’d completely forgotten Derek was there, and almost knocks over his coffee, but he pulls himself together – literally; he tugs on his shirt and brushes invisible dirt off his t-shirt. “Aw, Derek,” Stiles says, a crooked grin on his face. “Kicking me out already?”

Derek flushes. “No – I just–”

Stiles laughs, the noise surprisingly loud. “You’re probably right, dude,” he says, sobering. “I think I’m starting to see things.” Derek swears Stiles glances at his crotch, and he flushes. “This essay is a real bitch.”

“This is why you shouldn’t have done a double major.”

“Nah, it’s all interesting,” Stiles smiles.

They stare at each other for a few moments, before Stiles blinks, grabbing his bag off the floor and shoving his textbooks and pens haphazardly in it. “Well!” he says, and Derek shakes himself. “I should grab some z’s, for real. My mind is,” Stiles waves his hands around near his head. “You know.”

Derek nods, and smiles, softly as he can, as Stiles stands. “Goodbye, Stiles,” he says.

Stiles gives him a look for a moment, and says, “see you around, Derek.”

*

‘Around’ is the library, the next night, because they never see each other anywhere else. Claire or Corey or whoever the fuck isn’t there – Derek mourns her, he really does – and Lucille left putting the books away to Derek, again, fucking Lucille. Derek has no idea what Lucille even _does_ at the library. Sit around and look pretty, probably.

Stiles slides easily into what is, essentially, Stiles’ table – he even wrote his name on the underside, which Derek should probably do something about, if he cared.

(Which he doesn’t.)

(It’s weirdly endearing.)

Stiles is grinning, eyes bright, and Derek can’t help the confused smile at his expression.

“Guess what guess what guess what,” Stiles breathes excitedly. Derek opens his mouth, and Stiles continues, “I got a hundred on my test!”

A beat. Then, “out of what?”

“A hundred!” Stiles yells, throwing his arms up. “I fucking destroyed that test! Made it my _bitch_!”

Derek laughs quietly. “Congratulations, but you’re still in a library.”

Stiles pouts. “With only you and me, dude. We’re alone here.”

“I–” Derek starts. “Well. Yes. But it’s still a library, Stiles. Keep it down.” Stiles keeps smiling, though, and Derek turns his back and heads to the Russian literature section.

A few hours pass, and he comes back to find Stiles’ table empty, with a piece of neon purple-lined paper that looks like it was hastily torn from a notebook, and scrawled on it in orange highlighter is:

**Meet me for celebratory coffee tomorrow at 3, campus cafe. Your treat!!! :)**

– **Stiles**

♥♥♥

Underneath, there’s a phone number that has Derek going hot in the face.

*

Derek spends maybe a little too long planning his outfit.

He skype calls Erica – of course he does, and she only makes fun of him a little – when he spends twenty minutes deciding what shade of black jeans he wants to wear (“wear the faded ones. They’re tighter – and wear a belt. Trust me: one of your thick, leather ones.”) and finally decides on a plum sweater with thumb holes (“he’s going to think it’s dumb.” “No, honey, he’s going to want to eat you alive.”) and a pair of black boots he wasn’t even aware he owned. He suspects that Laura bought them for him.

“I can’t do this,” Derek says, his hand on the doorknob.

“I spent a half hour in the bookshop deciding whether to buy a paperback or a hardback copy of Lolita, before realizing there’s a copy at the library.” Erica rolls her eyes.

“Um.”

“Oh, sorry, I thought we were saying things no one really cares about.” A beat. Her expression turns serious, and she leans close to the camera. “Listen, Der, I know you don’t date much. I know that you’re awkward, and shy, and I know you have secrets,” and the way she says the word, like it’s a secret in itself, something dirty, something she wants to bite her teeth into, “but you like him. He likes you.” She shrugs. “I don’t have to do astrophysics to know that equation isn’t hard. You plus him equals hot, hot sex.”

“Erica,” Derek says, face hot.

She grins. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

*

Derek doesn’t see Stiles until he’s at the counter and looks around. He’s sat in a corner, hidden from the entrance, tucked behind a large plant and stabbing furiously at his phone. Derek can’t help the smile. Stiles doesn’t have a drink in front of him, so Derek orders it for him and a chamomile tea – large, please, here’s my college employee card. The barista hands him his drinks. Derek tips.

Stiles doesn’t notice Derek walking up to him, apparently, because he startles when Derek slides into the booth across from him, dropping his phone and hissing.

“I’m sorry–” Derek starts, and Stiles waves him off with a rushed “no no it’s fine my mind is everywhere today,” and Stiles’ cheeks are tinted pink.

They sit there for a few moments, just staring at each other softly, and Stiles abruptly shoves his finger in Derek’s face.

Derek jumps back. “Uh–”

“You’re not wearing any glasses!” Stiles says, a little too loudly. A girl, with brown skin and a straight nose on a table near them gives them a dark look, and Derek flushes.

“No, I – um, I’m wearing contacts,” Derek says, suddenly embarrassed and terrifyingly aware of himself. He’s hunched over a little, fingers digging into the skin underneath his watch, so he straightens up and puts his hands on the table near his cup, and withdraws them again when he realizes how sweaty his palms are. He wipes them on his jeans, and hunches back over. “The glasses get – yeah.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of his face, and looks out the window.

“Oh no, they look great – I mean, your face looks great. With contacts. Not that it doesn’t usually look great, I – okay, shutting up now.” Stiles stares morosely at his coffee, and Derek laughs softly.

“So,” Derek says, like he’s a conversation starter; he’s _not,_ but he’s definitely up for faking it. “Congratulations on your test.” He grips the handle of his mug, begging _pleasepleaseGoddon’tletmedropit_ silently as he raises it.

“Congratulations on my test!” Stiles grins, and raises his mug too, taking a large sip. His eyes bulge out of his face. “Oh _fuck_ me, that’s hot.”

Derek flushes. “You should. Probably wait for that to cool down.”

Stiles looks intensely into his coffee. “I won’t be able to taste any of this now.”

Derek blinks. “Should I – I should get you some. Uh, water. I’ll do that.” Derek makes to stand, but Stiles reaches out and grabs his wrist. Derek freezes, suspended with his knees bent awkwardly, hovering uncertainly. “Um.”

Stiles shakes his head frantically. “Sit, please,” he says, and Derek does. Stiles runs a hand over his face, and looks out the window. “Look…” he starts, and Derek’s heart stops beating.

Fuck, he thinks. Stiles has noticed how Derek looks at him, hasn’t he? Asked Derek to let him down easy. _Fuck_.

“I’m sorry–” Derek says, as Stiles says, “I really like you.”

Derek blinks. “Um,” he says dumbly. “What?”

“I mean–” Stiles says, eyes wide and searching. “I _like_ you! You’re a cool guy. And, uh, I never would have done so well on my psych test if you didn’t, like, help me.”

Derek blinks again, desperately trying to catch up. “I put books away,” he says slowly, because that’s pretty much all he does. Well, and everything a librarian (Lucille) should be doing (fuck you Lucille).

“Yeah, I mean. Yeah. But you do a lot of things! You bring me books I ask for, and books I don’t.”

“I’m a librarian,” Derek says. “That’s sort of what I do.”

“And you bring me _coffee_! That’s really nice of you.”

“Thanks – uh, you’re welcome, I mean.”

“Jesus,” Stiles puts his face in his hands, and Derek gets the terrifying feeling that he’s done something very, very wrong. “That’s not what I mean. You do things you don’t have to do – you _know my coffee order_!”

“You told me?”

“And you remembered it. Dude, _I_ hardly remember it most days. So – and we get on, right?”

Derek nods.

“Yeah, we get on _really well._ Like, some days I think you just get me, you know? More than anyone else does. More than I do, even.”

That’s a lot of pressure. Derek tells Stiles as much.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I just mean, like, we fit, you get me?” Stiles says. Derek nods. He does. Derek suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself; he wraps his hands around his mug and takes a sip. It’s nice, but doesn’t wash away the awkwardness. “I don’t know, dude. You don’t even try, but you make everything a lot easier.”

Derek tries very hard to swallow, but some of his tea goes down the wrong way and he tries desperately not to choke. “That – uh, that’s pretty cool,” he says, and coughs loudly, for too long. People are looking. Stiles is looking, concerned, hand suddenly hovering awkwardly near Derek. “I’m fine,” Derek wheezes. “And. You too. You make things – easier.”

Stiles breaks out in a grin. “Oh, man, that was so awkward. Awkward first date, eh?”

Derek freezes. “This is a… date?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, and doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. “It… could be?”

He has no idea what to say, so Derek takes another sip of his tea, and avoids Stiles’ gaze.

“Unless,” Stiles continues, “you have someone already?”

“Do you think I have someone else?” Derek frowns, lowering his mug. “I don’t. Do this, a lot.”

Stiles grins. “Do you even know what a date is?”

“Do _you?”_ Derek shoots back, and starts blushing furiously. “I. Tried. Um, asking you on a coffee… outing, a while ago.”

Stiles mouths the words ‘coffee outing,’ smirking, then flails. “You did? What the fuck, when?”

Derek looks at the table, then out the window. “When you told me your coffee order,” he says quietly. He can’t look at Stiles right now. Derek reaches for his glasses, then realizes belatedly he’s not wearing them. His hand hovers awkwardly, and he lowers it onto his lap, clenching his fingers into a fist and relaxing them, over and over.

“Oh, my God,” Stiles groans. “That’s so embarrassing. I totally thought – whatever. We’re here now. Derek,” Stiles reaches over and grabs Derek’s wrist that’s still on the table. “Will you go on a date with me?”

Derek looks at Stiles, mouth parted. He searches Stiles’ eyes, not quite sure what he’s looking for, but he feels something tight unravel in his chest anyway. He smiles. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“Oh, thank fuck, because that would have been so embarrassing and I’d never go to the library again.”

Derek laughs.

*

The late library sessions don’t change. Not much changes, but Stiles signs them up for a pottery class that they get kicked out of.

He signs them up for a flower arrangement class, too, that they get kicked out of, too.

They go on coffee dates, and Derek always gets their drinks for free and tips, and Stiles spends an inordinate time just looking at Derek’s face, and he flushes, every time, and it’s embarrassing, it is, but every time Stiles pulls Derek’s hands away from his face and tells him that he looks beautiful, _you really do,_ and Derek forgets how to breathe for a very, very long time.

*

The late library sessions don’t change. Not much changes, really, but this is new. This is… Stiles, in Derek’s apartment, curled up on his couch, watching Stargate.

Stiles sighs, content, and tangles his fingers with Derek’s. “I love James Spader,” he says. “He’s inspirational. Go to some distant, alien planet and just… stay there. Adiós, bitches.” His thumb is rubbing distracting circles on the back of Derek’s hand.

Derek yawns, jaw clicking. He’d had an essay due, and had been up until seven doing it – he’d tried during his shift at the library, but he’d had actual work to do, too, and could only get a bit done. He was grateful that all his classes were in the afternoon, or the evening, but he’d still only slept a few hours before Stiles had come over.

He’s glad, though, because Stiles had come with pizza and a smile that had made his heart skip a beat or two.

Stiles notices, because of course he does, and turns to him. “You tired, baby?” he asks, and it makes his breath catch when Stiles calls him that, it does, it does, it does.

Derek just sighs through his nose and nods, and says, “essay,” in way of explanation. Stiles just smiles softly, and the sounds of the TV are muted as Stiles curls a hand loosely around the back of Derek’s head, fingers massaging his scalp as he rests their foreheads together. His breath is warm, tickles over Derek’s skin, and he feels…

Content. Settled, in a way he hasn’t for a while. Stiles’ fingers move to the back of his neck, and begin massaging out the tension there, and he melts.

“Good boy,” Stiles whispers, so quietly Derek almost doesn’t catch it. Stiles brushes the tip of his nose along Derek’s cheek, and his breath catches, it does, it does, and Stiles’ lips are barely there against the ridge of Derek’s ear, barely there against his jaw line.

Stiles presses one, two, three chaste kisses to Derek’s mouth, the tip of his nose, and he lifts one leg onto the couch, turning bodily to face Derek.

“C’mon, baby,” he says, and wraps his arms around Derek, pulling him down with Stiles.

They end up with Stiles lying down on his couch, Derek on top of him, between his legs. Derek’s head is tucked into the nook of Stiles’ neck, and his glasses are pushed up awkwardly. Stiles huffs a laugh, takes them between his fingers and pulls them off before returning his hand to card it through Derek’s hair, stroking, stroking, stroking. Derek feels safe, and warm, and he never wants to move again.

“Go to sleep, baby,” and he does.

*

The late library sessions don’t change. Not much changes, really – they still act the same around each other, but there’s more coffee dates and going to each other’s apartments (well, Derek’s apartment, because Stiles has a recluse of a roommate that never leaves) and more kissing. The kissing is – the kissing is _great,_ actually, and Derek’s not a virgin but it’s been a while and no one has been Stiles, with his hands and his mouth. No one has ever made Derek flush as much as Stiles does, make him desperate and drive him insane like Derek.

It’s… Derek doesn’t even have the capacity to be embarrassed about it, but he _is_ , he really is, because maybe it should be a little humiliating, the way he goes red and squirms under Stiles’ touch, but Stiles never makes fun of him for it. He’s sweet about it. And equally as desperate, really, but they haven’t gotten any further than that. Derek would love to – _fuck_ , he’d love to, but every time Stiles’ hand goes near his pants, Derek freaks out.

It’s not that, he has to assure Stiles over and over, he _doesn’t_ want to – his increasing familiarity with his own hand tells him that yes, he definitely wants to – but he just…

Doesn’t know how to tell Stiles. Exactly. _Yet_. He’s working on it.

Derek frowns at himself in the mirror. Yeah, he’s totally working on it.

But it’s not something he can just _tell_ people. He really, really likes Stiles, and would trust Stiles not to tell people, but it’s still not just something you drop in casual conversation. And it’s not that he’s embarrassed by it – sexual liberation, or whatever – but he really does not know how Stiles would react.

“Hey, by the way, I like to wear lacy underwear.” Yeah, that’d be a great conversation.

Derek bites his lip and turns away from the mirror, pulling on jeans and a shirt. He’s just buckling his belt when he checks his watch.

“Fuck,” Derek hisses, hastily tucking his shirt in and throwing on a sweater vest.

*

Stiles is already there when Derek rushes into the library, hot and flushed, pushing his glasses up. Stiles just blinks owlishly at him, and pulls the highlighter out of his mouth.

“Didn’t know if you’d show up, dude,” Stiles says.

“Sorry.” Derek slides into the seat opposite him, catching his breath. “I was thinking about things. Lost track of time.”

Stiles hums under his breath, scrawling something in his notebook and putting his pen in his mouth, giving Derek a hard look. “What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Derek blurts, and goes red. Stiles grins.

“Seriously? That’s – wow. Not what I was expecting, but definitely…” his grin turns into a sly smirk. “What about me?”

Derek flushes. “Um,” he says. He feels Stiles’ foot nudging his.

“Anything particularly fun?” Stiles asks, and his foot slides further up Derek’s leg, stopping at his knee, perfectly still. Besides his smirk, Stiles’ face reveals nothing. He’s leaning on his forearms, homework apparently forgotten.

Derek’s ears are hot. “N-no,” he stutters, and Stiles makes a “hm” noise, apparently losing interest, going back to his homework, tapping his pan against his teeth.

Derek is about to get up – he still has a job to do – but Stiles’ foot travels to his thigh, going further and further up –

Derek stands abruptly, and Stiles looks startled, eyes wide and surprised. “Derek–?”

“I have to put books away,” Derek says, and flees.

*

He’s not proud of it, but Derek finds the furthest corner of the library and hides behind the shelves, back against the books and hot face in his hands. It’s embarrassing, the effect that Stiles has on him, Derek realizes now – before, when they were making out and doing stuff that _warrant_ this reaction, he didn’t think anything of it. Derek realizes now that all it takes is Stiles looking at him, just touching him, and Derek will come apart under him.

It’s… ridiculous, really, how far gone Derek is him, but Stiles is _intense._ When his attention is on you, it’s almost overwhelming.

Derek groans, pulling his hands away from his face and taking off his glasses, wiping them on his sweater vest. And he’d _ran away_ from Stiles, what the hell?

It’s not that Derek is a virgin – he’s not, but his one sexual encounter was possibly the most awkward experience of his life, and in college, with some girl that was as low down as he was on the social spectrum but held herself with such confidence it scared him a little. And it was _awkward,_ and about seven years ago; Derek doesn’t go out a lot, and people are hard, but Stiles is _easy –_ that is, things are easy with Stiles.

Derek puts his glasses back on, blinking, and turns to head to his desk where the trolley of books sits, and –

– tries not to jump out of his skin, because just around the corner of the bookshelf Derek was leaning against is Stiles, eyes wide and guilty.

“Um,” Stiles says, and doesn’t say anything else for a beat. Then, “you vanished. I was… looking for you?” Stiles winces, and Derek blushes, looking away.

“Sorry,” Derek says, and his voice is quieter than he would have liked.

Stiles steps close to him, close enough that Derek can feel the heat of his body, and lifts a hand to Derek’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. Derek looks at Stiles, then, and the vulnerability in his eyes scares Derek, a little.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, carding his fingers through Derek’s hair.

“Hi,” Derek manages to choke out, eyes flickering to Stiles’ mouth.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Stiles begins to rub small circles into Derek’s scalp, and Derek begins to curl in on himself, fingers picking at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“It’s just–” he sighs, frustrated. “You make me nervous.”

Stiles begins to smile, which makes Derek more nervous; that smile never means anything good.

“Does this make you nervous?” Stiles asks, glancing at his hand in Derek’s hair. His voice is a little lower, eyes a little darker, and Derek tries desperately not to squirm under his gaze.

“A–” Derek starts, and heat flares in his cheeks. He cannot look away from Stiles. “A little?”

Stiles steps closer, in between Derek’s legs, and he’s so close, but their only point of contact is the hand still running through Derek’s hair. Stiles leans in, lips just brushing Derek’s jaw, and his breath is hot against the side of Derek’s face.

“A good nervous?” Stiles asks, hand stilling but thumb still rubbing circles.

Derek tries to swallow around his tongue, mouth dry. “Y-yes,” he breathes, and brings his hands to brush against Stiles’ sides. “A good nervous.” He feels light headed, and he looks at Stiles’ lips and can’t look away.

Stiles’ smile turns into something softer, and he kisses Derek, gentle at first, chaste, but Derek’s hands spasm against Stiles’ sides, clutching his top tighter, and Stiles steps forward again, front plastered against Derek’s, and the kiss deepens into something deeper, dirtier. Derek can’t help his moan – Jesus, he can’t help anything around Stiles, he just comes apart for Stiles to mold back together like putty.

“Derek,” Stiles says, voice husky and low, “fuck, Derek.”

Derek’s glasses are steaming up again, hitched awkwardly up his face. “Yeah,” he breathes into Stiles’ open mouth, like his glasses aren’t mushed up between them.

“I need – Derek, fuck.” Stiles pulls away, burying his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, breath hot and wet. “I need. I need.”

“What?” Derek moves his hands to Stiles’ back, running them up and down the expanse of it, the over-shirt worn and soft.

Stiles just breathes for a moment, and – slowly, slowly – pulls away. Derek’s glasses clear up, and Stiles’ face is deliciously flushed, lips pink and wet. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Derek blinks. “Um,” he says.

Stiles’ eyes flicker down Derek’s body, settling on his chest. He lifts a finger to where his eyes are looking, trailing it down slowly, nail catching on the threads of Derek’s sweater vest. “Before,” Stiles starts, “I thought I saw something I need to ask you about.” His finger stops at the top of Derek’s jeans, thumb just dipping in between the denim and where his shirt is tucked in haphazardly.

Derek’s hands jerk up, but hover over Stiles’ wrist. “Stiles–”

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice stills Derek. “What are you wearing?”

Derek blinks. “Are you–” he stutters, “are you.” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Stiles pops Derek’s button, fingers pinching his zipper. “What. Are. You. Wearing?” He pulls the zipper down a little more with each word, leaning closer, till his breath is damp against Derek’s cheek again.

“I’m – oh, Jesus.” Derek squeezes his eyes shut as Stiles reaches behind Derek and grabs his ass. “Stiles.”

“Yeah?” Stiles lowers his head to Derek’s neck, licking a stripe up to his ear, and biting lightly at the shell. Derek’s hips jerk, and his hands come back up to Stiles’ back, clenching his shirt desperately.

“La– fu– ah.” Stiles bites down on Derek’s tendon. “Stiles!”

Stiles doesn’t let up his ministrations on Derek’s neck, licking and biting and sucking. “Hush, baby,” he pulls away long enough to say, smirking. “We’re in a library.” He kisses at Derek’s Adam’s apple.

“I’m–” Derek flushes, and leans his head down so Stiles’ hair brushes against his forehead. “Lace – lace underwear,” he whispers, and Stiles stills for a second before pulling away again, and Derek tries not to whine. The look on Stiles’ face says he failed.

“What?”

“I.” Derek gnaws at his lip for a moment. “I’m wearing. Lace.”

Stiles bites his lip, and says nothing for a long moment. “What color?”

“P- _peach_ ,” he gasps. “They’re peach.”

Stiles’ hand slips back to the front, pushing into Derek’s jeans and rubbing against the lace. “Fuck,” Stiles says, eyes blown out. Derek throws his head back, banging it against the shelf behind him. He doesn’t register the pain – everything has narrowed down to Stiles, and Derek, and Stiles’ hand in his pants. “God, it’s so…” He doesn’t finish, but Derek knows. Fuck, Derek knows.

“I think of you sometimes,” Derek breathes, finding his voice. “When I put them on. I imagine your–” he bites his lip, cutting off a curse as Stiles’ thumb rubs against his head. “Your hands.” He strangles out the words. “When I to– Stiles, yes.”

“Tell me.” Stiles bites at Derek’s jaw. “Tell me.”

Derek draws in a wrangled breath. “When I touch myself.” He flushes, like the words he’s saying are wrong. “I – I imagine it’s you.”

“Fuck.” Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s. “Fuck,” he says again. “Do you wear your panties while you touch yourself, baby?” He slots one thigh between Derek’s legs, and Derek rolls his hips, hissing under his breath.

He nods, helplessly.

“C’mon,” Stiles says, taking his hand out of Derek’s jeans, moving it to the back of them and pushing in there, kneading the flesh of Derek’s ass, pushing him into Stiles’ thigh. “Ride my leg.”

Derek almost cries out, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. “S–Stiles,” he keens. “We’re in a library.”

“It’s just us, baby, c’mon.” Stiles stills. “Is this – fuck, is this okay?” He’s flushed, face sweating slightly, and Derek wants to lick.

Instead, he nods; he can’t do anything else.

“But we haven’t, ah, we haven’t done anything yet.”

“It doesn’t count if dicks aren’t out.”

Derek can’t help it – he snorts, and Stiles is laughing right with him.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Okay.” And Stiles smiles up at him, and his nerves are gone. He cups Stiles’ face, drawing him in for a kiss, because this – because they are easy. He understands this. He understands the way Stiles’ cheeks scrunch when he’s grinning against Derek’s lips, and he understands the way Stiles’ body is pressed flush against his, hot and heady, and he understands when Stiles rocks his thigh.

“Fuck,” he whines, high and needy, hands coming to Stiles’ arms, clawing at the material there. “Stiles,” he says. “Stiles.”

“I got you,” Stiles whispers at Derek’s ear, teeth scraping the sensitive skin behind it. “Come on, baby, come for me.”

Derek chokes on a groan. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, and there’s a tugging in his abdomen. He can’t – he can’t. He can’t.

“You’re so beautiful in these, Derek,” Stiles carries on, not letting up his rocking against Derek, and it’s not enough. It’s not enough. “Fuck, when I first saw you in lace panties–” Stiles cuts himself off with a gasp. “Do you wear them all the time?”

Derek nods so hard his glasses slide down his nose, and he paws uselessly at them until he manages to push them up.

“Fuck, that’s so hot. You’re so hot. Do you get off on it?” Stiles asks. “Knowing you’re wearing lace panties and no one knows?” He bites at Derek’s bottom lip, licking at the seam of his mouth until he opens up, letting Stiles in. He groans around Stiles’ tongue. The taste of him is addictive, Derek thinks, and he needs it a little too much.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and nothing else. The only thing he can think is, “Stiles, Stiles,” and nothing else.

“God, Derek,” Stiles moans into Derek’s mouth. “You’re so good for me. So perfect,” and it’s that that does it, that has Derek coming with a stuttered whine, knees weak. He’s only held up by Stiles, and the bookcase behind him. “Oh, my God,” Stiles says, stilling. “Did I just make you cream your pants?” Derek can only nod, and Stiles grins.

Derek’s breath is labored, and he feels like he can’t even move, but Stiles lowers him to the ground, kneeling in front of him and pushing his hair back.

“Are you–” Stiles starts. “Are you okay? Was that..?”

Derek just nods again, swallowing around his tongue and managing, “good,” voice rough. “Really good. Jesus.”

Stiles huffs a laugh, pressing his forehead against Derek’s. “Broke you, huh? Also, um.” He rocks back on his heels. “Sorry about…” Stiles waves at Derek’s crotch, where there’s a noticeable wet patch.

Derek blinks. “That’s okay,” he says, and feels ridiculous for saying it.

“They’re not. Ruined. Are they?”

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “They came with instructions. To clean.”

They stare at each other for a few moments before breaking out smiling again, Stiles’ hushed laughter loud in the quiet of the library.

“Sorry, I’m just,” Stiles buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, shaking with laughter, and Derek can’t help it – he laughs, too.

Stiles takes Derek’s hand in his, thumb brushing over his knuckles before placing a kiss there. “I know I said it didn’t count if we didn’t get dicks out, but–”

“Stand up,” Derek begs, pawing at Stiles. “Stand up, please,” and Stiles does, but Derek stays on his knees.

Stiles gets it in a second.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles whines, “Der–”

“Is this okay?” Derek flushes. Now he’s – now he’s here, he’s not nearly as confident as he was when he was just thinking about taking Stiles into his mouth. “Do you–”

“Yeah, yeah, baby.” Stiles’ voice is broken, and he throws his head back, knocking it against the shelf. “Only if you want to, it’s–”

He threads his fingers through Derek’s hair, cradling Derek’s skull in the palm of his hand, and Derek nods frantically. He wants – he wants, so badly it scares him, but it doesn’t: this is him, and Stiles, and there’s nothing scary about it. Not really.

“I want to,” he whispers, and Stiles looks down at him, eyes blown wide.

Stiles reaches down, pulling down his zipper. He hooks a thumb in the waistband of his jeans, pushing them and his underwear down with them, and – there it is. Stiles’ cock.

It’s long, curving prettily to the left, and Derek’s mouth waters. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and Stiles groans. There’s a drop of pre-come at the tip of him, and Derek leans forward and licks it off.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, and his fingers tighten in Derek’s hair. Not pulling, just – there, and it’s so unexpectedly hot that Derek’s cock makes a valiant twitch. “Baby, come on.”

Derek takes Stiles into his mouth, fingers wrapped around what he can’t fit in his mouth. There’s – a lot. He wasn’t expecting it to be this much. But –

But it’s hot. Literally – the heat of Stiles on his tongue is almost too much, and the small, helpless twitch of his hips has Derek’s eyes fluttering shut.

He’s done this before. He… remembers how, sort of, so he breathes through his nose and takes more of Stiles in, the head of his cock nudging the back of his throat, and still his fingers have room to wrap around the base of it.

“Yeah,” Stiles is saying above him. “Fuck, fuck _fuck_ , Derek.”

Derek swallows around him, and his hips slam forwards, and Derek has to pull back a bit, tears stinging his eyes.

Stiles groans. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry,” but Derek just swallows him back down. His fingers tighten in Derek’s hair, and he moans.

Stiles notices, because of course he does, and he asks, “do you like that? Yeah, you do. On your – fuck, do that again – on your knees, such a good boy for me, baby, so good,” and Derek moans loudly, and Stiles fucks shallowly into his mouth, and the vibrations must do something because he tugs at Derek’s hair and says, “oh, shit. Yeah, baby, I’m so close,” and his voice is a lazy drawl with so much heat behind it Derek thinks he might melt.

He pulls off. “Stiles–”

He cuts off.

Stiles raises a brow. “Yeah, baby?”

“Please–” the words are harder to get out than Derek could have ever imagined, and he just wants to suck Stiles back down, because he’s right there, red and leaking. “Please…”

Stiles’ fingers are gentle in Derek’s hair. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Derek gnaws at his lips. “Please… please fuck my face,” and Stiles grins.

“Yessir,” he says, and he does. His fingers tighten in Derek’s hair, moving his face however he wants to, holding him still as his hips thrust into Derek’s mouth, over and over, hitting the back of his throat and maybe, maybe, just that little bit further, and if Derek swallows uncontrollably, moaning, then it just encourages Stiles more.

Derek’s basking in the litany of “such a good boy for me, baby, such a good boy,” and he doesn’t know where it comes from, really, but he likes it, he needs it, and his cock is hardening up again in his ruined panties.

Suddenly Stiles pulls out, holding Derek’s face away from him even as Derek whines. There’s a line of spit connecting his mouth and Stiles’ cock, and he flushes, can imagine the picture he makes, lips red and swollen, a flush all over his face, eyes blown out and a little hazy.

Stiles spits in his hand, wrapping it around his cock and strips it, jacking it hard and fast, until his hips are stuttering and he’s coming with a groan all over Derek’s face. Some lands in his open mouth, on his lips. Some lands on his glasses, and he couldn’t bring himself to care, not even a little.

Stiles’ breaths are heavy as he slams his head against the shelves again, saying, “fuck, Der,” and Derek can only agree.

They stay there, still and warm, catching their breath. Derek takes his glasses off, and looks down at himself. His jeans are already soaked through and drying awkwardly, Derek reasons, so it doesn’t matter too much when he lifts the bottom of his vest and rubs the come off on that.

Stiles slides to his knees, eyes still dark. He looks down at Derek’s crotch, where he’s already hard again, and Derek flushes.

“Sorry,” he says. He’s embarrassed to look to desperate in front of Stiles.

Stiles reaches for Derek, fingers cupping his jaw. He lifts his face up, presses one, two kisses there. The first is chaste, and sweet. The second, Derek can feel in his toes, hot and filthy and has him groaning and aching for it.

“Please,” he pants. “Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, at this point, sweaty and barely coherent. He’s sex dumb, and he could almost laugh at the realization.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Stiles whispers. “I’ve got you.”

And he does. He does, because he reaches down into Derek’s pants, rubs his thumb over his panties for a moment before slipping inside, fingers wrapping around Derek’s cock. He’s slow, painfully so, fingers brushing against his flushed skin one second and tightening the next, pulling up and down so, so slow, thumb pressing into the slit, into the skin just beneath the head, and Derek buries his face in Stiles’ shoulder, panting with his mouth open. He’s so – hot, everywhere, he can’t –

His fingers tangle in Stiles’ shirt, and for all the world he can’t do anything but hold tight.

Stiles’ other hand reaches around into the back of his pants, and Derek feels like he’s being held up only by Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, and his entire world is Stiles’ arms, strong and heady, and Stiles’ quiet mutterings of “such a good boy for me,” and when Stiles presses one finger against his hole he’s coming again with a cry, almost blacking out. His muscles tense for one, long moment, before turning to jelly.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Stiles is saying, hot in Derek’s ear, and Derek just…

Collapses, lets Stiles hold him together.

“I’m going to need a moment,” he says after a very long moment, and Stiles huffs a laugh.

“C’mon, Der,” Stiles says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

And he needs it, because Stiles has just made him come twice in his pants, and they’re sticky and uncomfortable. He flushes when he remembers just where it is he is, and he buries his face in Stiles’ neck again.

Stiles laughs, but there’s nothing cruel behind it, and he rubs his hand up and down Derek’s back.

“Come on, baby,” he says. “Let’s get our things and go. I’ll give you a lift – you can. You can stay at mine, if you like.”

“I don’t,” Derek starts, and closes his eyes. “I don’t want people to…”

“No one’s going to see you, baby,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll keep you safe,” and the grin is there, Derek can feel it against the shell of his ear, but he can. He can, and Derek believes him.

“Okay,” Derek says, and Stiles pulls back, hands on Derek’s face, and his smile is blinding.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://vanillawg.tumblr.com/)


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